


the sun rose with your name on my lips

by dhils



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Morning After, nobody:, tyson: im not even in love with jt lol what the fuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-13
Updated: 2019-03-13
Packaged: 2019-11-16 11:48:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18093719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dhils/pseuds/dhils
Summary: “That’s not what you were saying when you were trying for my belt,” JT says. He’s very calm about it.





	the sun rose with your name on my lips

**Author's Note:**

> the avs have a special place in my heart bc theyve got an imaginary gay rivalry with my team so i had to rlly taste the rainbow for this one 
> 
> full homo fellas!

When Tyson wakes up, he groggily glances around the room he’s in, trying his best to connect the walls to some known location. This isn’t Kerfy’s place, or Gabe’s, and judging by the cleanliness, it definitely isn’t Barrie’s. 

A tuft of ginger hair peeks out of the blanket next to him and he nearly screams. 

 

 

He’s stupid for going back to sleep, convincing himself _just one more minute_ because panic takes preparation and Tyson wasn’t about to jump into all of that first thing in the morning.

So when he wakes up, and he actually wakes up this time, he gets a second chance to panic, or fall off the mattress, or throw a fit, but anything he tries to get out dies on his lips when he realizes he’s alone again. Same house, same room, same bed, but there are mussed sheets and an empty spot next to him this time.

It also gives Tyson a chance to take note of just how big the bed is. _Huge_ , with plenty of space to roll around on and isn’t that a thought.

Fuck this, seriously. Fuck JT, too. For leaving, but more specifically for trying to ruin Tyson’s life.

 

 

“Fuck you,” he says promptly, when he walks into the kitchen. He doesn’t know his way around JT’s new apartment well enough to be able to navigate through it with a hangover without banging into walls, but getting there without bruises is something he takes pride in. 

“Nice hickey,” JT comments, sipping coffee from up on the counter.

Okay. Minimal bruises. 

“You’re not funny,” Tyson tells him, taking the cup JT ever so helpfully hands over. He pours himself some of his shitty coffee too, because if he’s already over he’s going to make the best of it. “You’re actually the worst. Awful.”

“That’s not what you were saying when you were trying for my belt,” JT says. He’s very calm about it. Like, annoyingly calm. Tyson would like to sock him in the jaw, but his mama taught him better.

She also taught him better than to sleep with his best friend. She never outright said it, that would be an interesting conversation, but Tyson always thought he had at least the decency to read between the lines. Apparently not.

“That isn’t helping,” Tyson argues. “Last night, we didn’t actually—we didn’t. Right.” The proof is there, because like, if it quacks like a duck, right? 

JT looks at him, incredulous. “Oh yeah, definitely not,” he says, his voice wavering only slightly.

“Nice,” Tyson says, and sips at the rest of his coffee. 

 

 

They’ve never fucked before. Not last year, or the year before that. Not when Tyson got sent down or when he was brought back up. Not when guys on the team were fully convinced they were together. Not even when JT kissed him that first time. 

It wasn’t anything special. In fact, Tyson remembers wishing it was special. Because maybe then he’d act on it, if it wasn’t just a tiny peck on the lips after clinching a playoff spot. If it was more than just JT’s ecstatic eyes, and his big bright smile, and—if Tyson had the balls. 

He didn’t then and he doesn’t now. Which is okay. It’s fine.

 

 

“You’re, like, really good,” Tyson says, and feels like a loser the second it leaves his mouth. 

The car hits a bump. JT doesn’t flinch, but his eyes do leave the road to glance at Tyson. Maybe that’s the worst part of it, that just a glance from him sends his cheeks burning. 

“Sorry, what?” He goads, and Tyson’s a little taken aback until he sees the look on his face. He’s smiling now, waiting for Tyson to say exactly what he wants to hear. 

The problem is, Tyson might just say it.

“Um.” He makes a small gesture with his hand. It’s vague and awkward, but JT’s smile never fades, so maybe that’s exactly what he‘s looking for. “In. Bed, you know.”

“I got that,” JT says, understanding. Like Tyson didn’t just confide his weird sex thoughts to him. “You’re not bad yourself.”

He smiles down at his hands. They don’t say much to each other the rest of the way to practice.

 

 

Arena lights are harsh and gruelling all on their own. They never needed the help. Considering nobody was fucking offering it. 

Except for his aching headache. That might be doing a little something for the bright LED lights. Tyson nearly skates face first into the boards trying to get his head in the game and maybe it’s worse that the only person who knows why it happens is JT. 

“Pretty smooth out there.” He grins obnoxiously, leaning against the glass. 

They’re running a 3 on 4 drill and Tyson isn’t ready to go back out there. Not a chance in hell. 

“Yeah? Eat ass,” he snipes weakly, squinting at the puck being dumped down the ice. He shifts his weight from leg to leg and he doesn’t realize until a few seconds too late that JT’s staring straight into the side of his head.

“Sore, too? You just can’t take it, huh.” 

Tyson directs his glare right his way. “Remind me, are you always this shitty or am I being blessed?”

“Always.” JT makes a face. “Then again, it could just be the hangover.”

“Dope,” Tyson gripes.

 

 

Obviously, they’ve fucked now. They’re not _fucking_ , it was a one time thing and Tyson isn’t exactly planning on it happening again, but they fucked. It happened and it was probably not the worst thing in the world.

It was good, actually. Really good. 

Tyson stares at the stark brightness of his phone screen in the dark of his room, reading through a long string of texts ranging between yelling about TV shows and quarrels about dinner plans. 

Nowhere in there does it say, _i think we should talk about the sex thing_

Tyson’s fingers hover over the send button.

Scratch that, it does now. 

 

 

When JT calls him, he nearly declines it immediately. It’s just. His name popped up and Tyson’s pulse leapt into his throat, immediate sirens going off in his head. 

He lets it ring four times. He knows it because he counts _one, two, three, four_ before picking up, if only because he‘s confident he’d let it go to voicemail any other way. 

“I can’t believe it took you all fucking day” JT says immediately, and then softens that with, “sorry, this is so stupid. If you’re really that ashamed about it we can forget it, you know?”

“What?” Tyson blinks at the dark room splayed out in front of him and he swears there are colours dancing around his eyes. It’s like looking into a kaleidoscope. “You didn’t say anything either. All you did was joke about it.” 

“I was trying to make light of it,” JT says.

“People make light of a _bad_ situation, you asshole.” Tyson’s thinking he really wants to clock JT right now. Or at least passive-aggressively glare at him like he did to Kerfy after the guy dropped his red flannel into Tyson’s load of white clothes.

“Hey, Tys, c’mon,” he tries. That really only makes it worse.

Maybe it’s a surprise, but Tyson’s not going to bend over backwards and take this with some half-assed apology because this isn’t something small. It isn’t just a petty argument, it’s a lot more than that. He could be fucking furious right now, if he wanted to be.

“No, _no_ , I get it. Seriously, thanks for clearing that up,” Tyson says, trying hard to pack down every single tendril of irritation scratching at the back of his throat. “Fuck you, man.”

He doesn’t wait to hang up.

 

 

The worst part of pretending to be mad at JT is probably the whole carpooling to the arena thing or rooming on roadtrips or sitting next to each other on the plane—the point is, it’s really hard to actually stay mad at JT when he sees him everyday. Especially since Tyson’s supposed to be batting away any feelings he already had for him and trying to replace them with frustration.

Trying and failing, actually. 

Like when they’re stealing little daggers of glances at each other from across the room. It’s right before they play the Panthers, which is and always has been an irrelevant event for the longest time, but maybe it’s this whole exchange that might make it memorable. Like when JT turns around and Tyson can’t keep his eyes down, instead watching the curve of his ass and the way his waist tapers down into those damm hips and. Tyson’s seen all that before. Between sheets. 

It’s the worst, pretending to be mad at JT. Or just straight being mad at him, whatever it is. He still can’t tell the difference. Part of him isn’t even ready to classify it. 

He just hates that they’re treating this like a whatever type of thing, when it’s really everything. Because Tyson doesn’t know where they are on this, if he’s actually allowed to talk to JT if he wants to, if he can still go to him with his shit.

Being angry isn’t helping.

 

 

“Hey, so you’re doing what now?” Barrie asks him, right when they get into the tunnel. 

“What am I doing,” Tyson says, keeping his head forward. It’s a lot easier to put his tail between his legs and avoid eye contact, even if he can already picture the face Barrie’s making.

And he gets nothing. It’s pure silence on the other end, which isn’t really helpful when you’re trying to keep up a conversation, but it’s still Tyson’s turn to talk. He knows what Barrie’s implying, they both know it. 

“With JT,” he clarifies anyways, he sounds really stubborn, like he’s about to dad lecture Tyson right here in the tunnel. It wouldn’t be the first time or anything.

“Oh,” Tyson says, like he wasn’t supposed to be expecting that. “We, uh. Did _it_.” It’s a little hard to outright say they fucked, especially while they’re in the tunnel, but Barrie makes a noise like he gets it.

“No kidding.” A beat goes by. Another one. He laughs. “Wait, but not actually, right?“

Tyson doesn’t say anything. He starts walking instead, when he gets the go-ahead. 

“God, Josty,” he hears from behind him. Still Barrie. “You’re doing this so wrong.”

 

 

At this point, Tyson can barely remember the night they got together, him and JT. He remembers being somewhere between drunk and tipsy, just nothing that would have him blacking out. He remembers seeing JT against the low blue lights of the club at the beginning, when he had stars in his eyes. He remembers the way he couldn’t keep his hands off of him in the uber back to his place, when he was giggling into the crook of JT’s neck and whispering filth into his ear. 

Tyson knows he was bleeding with want. He knows it well enough that he can still feel it, down to his fingertips everytime they lock eyes. But it’s one of those things he’s supposed to be stomping down. Which he does. He tries.

Then JT smiles and Tyson smiles back and it all comes rushing into his head.

 

 

They’re not very good at arguing. 

 

 

“JT, talk to me,” Tyson says one morning. It could be pleading. He’s not hungover, or pissed, just pleasantly content with his coffee. It warms him up from the inside out, a little like when JT’s fingers skimmed up his side that one night. When Tyson let himself lean into him, when he pressed in and in and—

“No problem,” JT says, pretty compliantly. If Tyson hasn’t already, it startles the silence in the car. “Uh, I went to the store the other day. But all I bought were these instant noodles because I thought I was finally gonna learn how to cook, but I forgot I don’t know how to, like. Season.” 

“Wow.”

“Yeah, I think I stared at some oregano trying to figure out what to do with it for like ten minutes until I started freaking some mom out. I dipped after that, didn’t wanna get thrown out,” he explains, blowing out a chuckle. It’s the first time Tyson’s heard him laugh in a while. It’s happy and crisp and oh so familiar to listen to. 

They talk the rest of the way to morning skate like they haven’t in long enough that Tyson finds himself laughing at every little joke JT makes. Suddenly, he’s interested in everything he says. He’s drawn into him again. Right back where they began. 

When they’re about to get out, Tyson wavers just to glance right back over at him. He says, “we should do this all again sometime."

The smile playing on JT’s lips is this gentle thing, something private between the two of them that Tyson could try to commit to memory, but it’s the one he always gets. It’s his.

“The talking?”

“I mean. We should do a couple of things again,” Tyson says, shrugging, and lets the cool air drip in as he pushes the door open. “Right?”

“Yeah, actually, that’d be really cool,” JT says.

Tyson doesn’t know where they stand, but he thinks it means they’re okay when he lets himself walk to the arena with JT’s arm thrown over his shoulders.

 

 

JT, who isn’t at all quiet about finally breaking the silence between them, gets sized up by both Barrie and Gabe in the locker room. Barrie has a big mouth, Tyson’s learned. 

He’s gotta tell them both off with sheepish smiles and Barrie‘s got a lot to say about that, too. 

Like, “Oh, so you’ve made up wth your boyfriend,” all accompanied by the most shit-eating smile he’s ever seen on _anyone_. Tyson didn’t even think it was possible for him to look that smug. 

“He’s not— _my boyfriend_ ,” he says, lowering his voice. “I just like him and wanna spend time with him, and we’ve, uh, kissed.” 

“Mhm,” Barrie hums at him, unconvinced. 

Tyson gives him one long suffering sigh until the gears in his head finally start turning, and then, “oh, my god.“

 

 

“TBear thinks we’re dating,” Tyson says, as they’re heading for player parking. It’s kind of a non-sequitur and he’s always hated being that guy, but the thought has been heavy on his shoulders since the minute Barrie suggested it.

JT looks at him, considering, with a once over that almost seems judgmental. But, then again, his expression is too fond for it to be anything near that. “Do you not wanna do that, or?”

“No! _No_ ,” Tyson blurts, and immediately stammers out, “wait, I mean, shit, yeah. Yes, I do. Want that. And stuff.” It’s all very grating and probably the clumsiest sentence he’s ever pulled together. 

JT looks like he agrees, but he doesn’t say it. He’s secretly a good person like that. 

“Oh, nice,” he says, and his gaze bounces around the hallway. “So can I, um, hold your hand?”

“What?”

“I know dating isn’t just holding a boy’s hand, but I wanna hold yours. If that’s, like, okay with you.”

Tyson finds a lot of comfort in not being the only lame one in this relationship.

“You’re asking for consent to hold my hand,” Tyson laughs out, a little disbelieving. It’s sweet, he thinks it’s sweet. But he’s not letting this go. “Of course, yeah, let's do that.” He leaves out the _please_ balanced dangerously on his tongue.

“You’re really judgy.” JT’s fingers brush his own, before he dives in and entwines them. 

Tyson gives his hand a little squeeze. “It’s better to know what you’re signing up for.” 

JT looks over at him, this little glint of happiness on his face. “I like it.”

 

 

When Tyson wakes up, he doesn’t immediately recognize where he is. Everything’s a little different. A little new. Something unfamiliar but maybe, just maybe, a little comforting. 

The arm draped over his stomach is new, and so are the even breaths against his neck, and the quiet feeling of joy that bubbles up in the pit of his stomach. 

“Hey,” he whispers, into the quiet of the room.

It takes a minute before, “huh,” falls from JT’s lips. And then, “hold on, don’t go, I wanna cuddle. Just a little,” he slurs.

And that’s different, too. But the thing is: it’s good different, and Tyson's never been against change.


End file.
